Carol Ritten Smith (4 page)

At first, Tom wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but when he decided he had, he fought to maintain a straight face, “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

“Don’t do it. It stinks.” He pinched his nose and made a sour expression. “Real bad!” After sharing the wisdom he gained from his experience, he continued petting Jack.

Tom laughed aloud. Darned if he wasn’t enjoying the kid!

Davy had been at the smithy for well over half an hour when it struck Tom maybe he should ask, “Does your sister know you’re here?”

“Nah, she’s too busy with that stupid Freddie to pay any attention to me.”

Tom knew all about the conflict between Freddie North and Miss Patterson. Mrs. North had given him an earful about how that young upstart schoolteacher didn’t know the first thing about teaching, how she favored the girls and picked on the boys, especially her Freddie. Just to shut the woman up, Tom had promised to talk with Miss Patterson.

“Is your sister keeping him after school again?”

Davy nodded. “More lines.”

“How come you don’t go visit Bill?”

“Shucks, he don’t want me hanging around. Says I’ll get him fired.”

Tom laid down his sledge and took off his heavy apron. “I tell you what. I’ve got to go over to the school and talk to your sister about something, so why don’t you stay here and keep Jack company. I’ll let her know where you are.”

Davy jumped to his feet. “Oh boy!”

“But you’ve got to promise not to touch anything.”

“I promise.” Davy spat on the dirt floor and, with the toe of his scuffed boot, drew a cross through it.

Smiling, Tom reached for his hat hanging by the door.

Beth was vigorously erasing the blackboard at the front of the classroom when Tom entered. “Did you forget something?” she asked tersely, not bothering to turn around.

“Nope. Don’t think so.”

Startled by the deep voice, she spun about. “Oh, I thought you were Freddie North.” She set the brush on the blackboard’s narrow ledge and wiped her chalky hands on her skirt. “Please, Mr. Carver, come in.” As much as she disliked him, she strove for an air of professionalism. “How may I help you?”

Tom removed his hat and came forward, stopping in front of her desk, and for a moment she thought he might have come to apologize for his rude behavior toward her.

“I’m here to see you about Freddie.”

“Oh?” An alarm sounded inside her head.

“Mrs. North came to see me today. Seems she thinks you’re picking on her son.”

Beth bristled. Her heart pounded and her face felt flushed. To calm herself she set about gathering up the books and worksheets on her desk.

“Actually, I’m glad she brought this to my attention. As one of the school trustees, I need to know what’s going on in the classroom.”

No longer able to contain herself, Beth spoke up in self-defense. “Mr. Carver.” She succeeded in making his name sound like a vile expletive. “What is
going on
in this classroom is learning. I believe that is why the school board hired me. Freddie North is a troublemaker and if you’re here to tell me I should ignore his disruptive behavior, then you’re wasting your time.” She slammed the books down to emphasize her position.

It would have been so much more dramatic if a loose sheet of paper hadn’t floated off her desk to land at Tom’s feet. He picked it up, a half smile playing on his lips and definitely on her nerves.

“If you would let me finish.” He placed the paper squarely on top of the books. “I don’t expect you to let him off the hook. Rather, I would like to discuss your disciplinary actions.”

“I assure you, there is nothing excessive or unduly cruel with insisting a student write lines.”

“I didn’t come here to criticize, Miss Patterson, just to offer some advice. Maybe you should consider giving Freddie the strap. That straightens most kids out.”

Beth was certain Mr. Carver had had more than his fair share of strappings, and she wondered if corporal punishment had done him any good. But the thought of administering the strap caused her to blanch. Her voice became quiet when she spoke. “I prefer not to use the strap. In fact, I threw the old one away.” She straightened as if her spine were a yardstick. “I am quite positive Freddie has had enough of writing lines and this will be the end of it.”

“Well, let’s hope so. I hate to think that the other students are suffering because of one troublemaker.”

Her green eyes flashed. “Rest assured, Mr. Carver, none of my students are suffering in any way, but if they were, then by all means I would administer the strap.”

“Good,” Tom said, “then you won’t mind me bringing by a new one.” He set his hat back on his head. “By the way, Davy is at my shop. I told him I’d clear it with you.”

“That boy! He supposed to be playing outside, not traipsing around town by himself.”

“Now don’t get all riled up. He just dropped in for a visit. Seemed a little lonely, what with you spending so much time with Freddie. You know, a little guy like that can’t be ignored for long or he’s going to get into trouble.”

Beth had just about all she could take from this man. She came around to the front of her desk and faced off with him as best she could since he was a good foot taller than her. “Really, Mr. Carver, I was not aware you knew so much about children.”

Tom shrugged. “It’s just plain common sense. Don’t need to be an expert to figure that out. He’s kind of a cute little tyke, quite infatuated with my old dog.” Then eyeing her intently, he added, “Instead of trying to find your cat, maybe you should consider getting him a dog.”

Beth forced a smile. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” When Tom closed the door, she threw a piece of chalk at it.
Arrogant jackass!

• • •

Beth found the strap on her desk the next morning and though she was dead set against any sort of physical punishment, before the day was out she was forced to use it. Apparently writing lines was no deterrent for Freddie. All day long he moved from one infuriating prank to another, most of the time victimizing the girls. To make matters worse, the other, normally well-behaved boys had begun to emulate Freddie’s behavior. Before things got any further out of hand, Beth needed to take control, so when Freddie dipped Inga’s beautiful blond pigtails in ink, she took immediate action.

“Class is dismissed early today.”

The children immediately cheered and books slammed shut.

“But not you, Freddie. You are to stay behind.”

Freddie groaned. “What, more lines?”

“No,” Beth replied, displaying a calm demeanor, one she wished she possessed. She pulled open the center drawer of her desk, reached far to the back and retrieved the strap. She placed it with purposeful precision along the front edge of her desk.

The strap might as well have been a corpse stretched across her desk. Students filed quietly past as if paying their last respects. At the cloakroom door, they gave Freddie a final glance, somehow sensing that from this moment on he would never be the same.

Beth could hear the scuffle outside the school windows as students vied for the best viewing position.
Why did it have to come to this?
She was certain Freddie didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the strap any more than she wanted to be on the giving end. Regardless, the inevitable had arrived.

“Come forward, Freddie,” she demanded, suddenly very angry to be forced to do something so against her grain. “Hold out your hand.”

• • •

Freddie left the school holding back tears. Beth slowly and weakly made her way around to her chair and dropped into it. Through her own tears, she stared at the flat brown strap still in her hand. It sickened her to think she was no better than her abusive aunt and uncle. In a blind rage, she yanked open her desk drawer, grabbed a pair of scissors and began hacking savagely at the strap. The scissors twisted and hurt her hands, but they did little harm to the vile piece of rubber. Finally, she flung them both and they skidded across the wooden floor, stopping against a desk.

She dropped her head onto her folded arms and began to cry. Soon she was weeping great heaving sobs that squeezed her chest and wrung the breath from her. Why did she ever think she could teach?

Outside, when the students saw Freddie’s red hands shaking and tears rolling down his face there was a new reverence for the teacher, albeit one earned by fear rather than respect. They followed on Freddie’s heels, barraging him with questions about the strapping.

Davy made a bee-line to the smithy after leaving the rest of his classmates.

Tom glanced up from his work. “School out early today?”

“Guess what? Beth gave Freddie the strap!”

Tom raised his eyebrows. Somehow he never thought she’d have the gumption to use it. “You look pleased.”

“Yup,” Davy answered honestly. Tom smiled.

“So, how’s your sister doing?”

“I don’t know. If she’s in that bad of a mood, I’m not going near her.”

Tom nodded. Freddie must have pushed the young teacher far beyond her limit for her to have administered the strap. Because he suggested the punishment, he felt obliged to see if she needed any bolstering. “I think you’d better head home. I’ll check on your sister. She might be upset.”

When he arrived at the school he decided that “distraught” would have been a better word. A big lump of compassion stuck in his throat. If he had known she was going to take it this badly, he never would have suggested the strap. Hell, as a school trustee, he probably could have booted Freddie out of the classroom or strapped him himself for that matter. He wished now he had.

He placed his hand on her shoulder and she lifted her head at the gentle pressure.

Beth turned in her chair, presenting her back to him. “If you came to gloat, just go away and leave me alone.”

“Davy told me what happened and I just came to see if you are okay.” Tom stepped around in front of her and squatted on his haunches. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. Freddie got what he deserved.”

“Why did you have to bring that stupid strap over anyhow? I was doing just fine without it.” It was obvious to both of them she wasn’t. “Freddie just kept pushing and pushing — ” She covered her face with her hands and resumed sobbing.

In all the time Tom had been courting Abigail Craig, he’d never seen her cry like that. A tear maybe, but nothing near as heart wrenching as Beth’s anguish. “Now, now,” he said awkwardly, “no more crying. You did what you had to do.”

She nodded and managed to get her sobbing under control. She looked at him, her eyes red. When a single tear rolled down her cheek and sat at the edge of her pretty little mouth, Tom wondered if she would lick it. Shocked by his untimely and inappropriate thought, he stood and took a step back. “You know, if you’re going to be a teacher, you better toughen up.” His words came out more harshly than he’d intended.

But at least they got a rise out of her. “What do you mean, if?” She stood nose to chest and glared up at him. “I
am
a teacher, a good teacher!” She fished a hankie from her pocket and blew her nose loudly. “You have no right to criticize. And one spoiled brat isn’t going to stop me, thank you very much!” Slamming her books closed, she gathered an armful and headed out the school, her head held high and skirts swaying confidently.

That a girl!
Tom nodded his head. He closed up the school behind him.

• • •

At six o’clock, Tom locked up the smithy for the day and headed to Abigail’s. Ahead Tom saw Miranda Parsons coming his direction, her mother following closely. Tom cursed silently. He could come up with a number of unflattering descriptions for Miranda, but the kindest — though not the most accurate or colorful — was “hussy.” Rumor had it that she kept a list of all the men she had bedded and the list was growing faster than fleas multiplying on a mutt. It was beyond him why any man would be the slightest bit interested in her. Catching her affection was no more challenging than stirring up an anthill and seeing if any ants climbed the stick.

Acting nonchalant, Tom strolled toward mother and daughter, intent upon walking straight past them with only a nod of his head. Not surprisingly, Miranda grabbed his shirtsleeve.

“Oh hello, Tom,” she gushed. “What a surprise.”

Tom politely tipped his hat. “Mrs. Parsons, Miss Miranda.”

“Momma and I thought we’d go for a walk down by the creek. It’s such a lovely day. Would you care to join us?”

Mrs. Parsons scowled at her daughter.

“Sorry,” Tom said, “I have other commitments.”

Miranda pursed her lips into a practiced pout. “What a shame. Maybe some other time then?”

Tom made no reply. He tipped his hat again, then stepped aside to allow them to pass.

As they continued on, Tom could hear Mrs. Parson scolding her daughter. He figured the dear woman might as well save her breath. Miranda was too far gone for any morality lecture.

Across the street, Earl Betner swept the wooden step in front of his store as was his habit every morning and night. He paused long enough to call to Tom, “You’re still coming for supper Sunday night?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Come hungry. You know how Mary loves to cook.”

That he did.

When influenza orphaned Tom at age twelve, Mary and Earl took him in as though he was one of their own. They loved him, fed him, and disciplined him right along with their other five boys. With seven males in the house to feed, Mary had needed to be an excellent cook.

“My stomach’s growling already.” Tom waved at Earl.

• • •

Abigail Craig’s place was a tiny, white, single-story, clapboard house. Colorful pansies bordered the walkway that led up to the front door. A wooden sign — Abigail Craig, Seamstress — hung by two short chains from the awning above the door, and it creaked as it swung in the wind.

Tom stepped up to the door, pressed his hands and face against the screen and peered into the kitchen. Abigail was standing at the wood stove with her back to him, and from the swaying movement of her body, Tom knew she was stirring something, something that smelled mighty good.